Habit
by kirby russell
Summary: Nothing is stronger than habit." Ovid


Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Homes or Mary Russell. Or Mrs. Hudson.

A/N: This takes place at the end of the Beekeeper's Apprentice, during Mary's recuperation. Also, this is a stand alone. There will not be a sequel unless I discontinue school. You all are lucky I finished this one.

Habit

By: Kirby Russell

***

"He went away a great deal, but I did not ask why, and he did not tell me." ~Page 402, The Beekeeper's Apprentice

"Nothing is stronger than habit." ~Ovid

***

The night wrapped its dark hands around him, enveloping him and leading him away. He let it. It had become his trusted friend over the long years, and once again he turned to it for comfort. He remembered all the nights he spent out, walking with a pipe between his lips and a riddle lodged between the two lobes of his brain. The walks had become somewhat of a habit with him, before Sussex. Now again he turned once more to an old companion. He knew why he enjoyed the night so. It was unnamed and omnipresent; it had no secrets, no feelings, no weakness. Like him. Like he was before. Before _her. Running a hand over his tired face, he thought of __her. Russell. The girl with whom he was damned to petty emotions and endless confusion but without whom was damned to loneliness and incessant self-pity. She had become the worst addiction of them all. Watson was more of a whim than an actual necessity. Cocaine merely a solution to boredom. Moriarty was a pretty riddle to be solved, but cracked eventually and inevitably . But Mary..._

She lay in his cottage now, still as death and as responsive. The act that once they had participated in had become reality for her. He had watched over the months, as the mask she wore consumed her and then became her. And after the final scene of the final act, when it was finally over... the mask remained. And now he was stuck with a girl who hated him, for no other reason but habit. She would leave in two weeks for Oxford; for that he was very thankful. He did not need this corpse cluttering up his house. The world's first and best private consulting detective did not need this shell of a girl. Habit or no, he would break it, because he could not break Russell any further. 

'_But,' a tiny voice said in his head; one that he always tried desperately to ignore, '__It is your fault for her destruction. She adored you, and you took that-' no don't say it, don't say that word! '-__that love_ and used it. You, Sherlock Holmes, you destroyed her. And now she will go back to Oxford cold and lifeless... like you..._'_

He pondered this. Would she transform into a female replica of him? Would she be barren of emotion until very old age, until it was too late; refusing to trust any of her race and becoming a lonely hermit? Had he really acted as Judge and Jury without his conscience knowledge, and sentenced her to misery? He reviewed the past weeks in his mind, searching for any sign that Russell was not turning away from him and therefore turning away from Humanity. However, after the fruitless exercise, he felt slightly malicious, actually hoping that Russell would become more machine than woman. The habit that so plagued him would be defeated without the inconvenience of muddying his hands. Finally he would have an equal, to trust with cases when his body betrayed him. At last, he thought, an heir to whom I can pass on the kingdom of Knowledge. 

Coming to his favourite spot under a willow tree, he sat heavily and pondered. The diamond mind raised memories of Mrs. Hudson and Russell laughing in the kitchen while the former taught the latter to cook and sew. How clear and melodious, he remembered, that laugher was. He could not think of a recent time when he had heard that innocent sound, and it hurt him. He realized that, however irrational, he wanted _his_ Russell, the one who had become part of him before he even had the time to object. The habit had devoured him, and he resented her for making him so weak.

***

He found her curled up in a tight ball, snoring slightly, but smiling in such a way that it justified her offending oratory noises. 'Innocence be the sleeping babe', he thought. The position in her favourite chair did not look in any way comfortable, and his usually mute conscience told him now to be human, or at least treat her as one. After debating silently with himself for a minute (a habit which he found refreshing instead of concerning), he decided to stir her. 

"Russell," he whispered. No movement, only a steady snore. 

"Russell," he whispered again, a bit louder and closer. Still nothing. He decided to sacrifice delicacy, as it never suited him in the first place.

"RUSSELL," he shouted in her ear, feeling the silky brush of her long hair against his cheek. Her eyes flew open with dangerous speed. She calmed once oriented, but then her eyes widened at an even faster speed. He wondered why, then, realizing suddenly the close proximity their lips were in, stood back abruptly. For the second time that night he rubbed a hand across his face, and wondered what was wrong with him. It was age, he decided. Senility had finally begun to settle in. She was lucky to be so young. Her whole life ahead of her, so much to learn, and to lose. He wondered what she was doing here, and he knew the question had many meanings in his tired mind.

Paternally tucked the offending bit of hair behind her ear, he sat next to her now comfortably positioned body. 

"You should be in a bed, Russell. This chair is not aiding the recovery of your shoulder." To prove his point, he put pressure on it; she winced and tried to squirm out of his grip. Not yet fully awake, she said irritably:

"Help my shoulder then instead of trying to break the bones. Again."

His faced closed abruptly, and he cursed his moment of humanity. But before he could stand to disappear she slurred out hastily:

"Dear God, Holmes, I'm sorry. I spoke before thinking." Trying desperately to show that he did not care, he said:

"A horrible habit, Russell, you should focus your energy on breaking it." 

She smiled grimly. "Holmes, I know you are inhuman-" 'If you only knew' he thought, 

"- but some _homos_ find it difficult to just wish habits away. In fact, most people never rid of their habits; they just learn to accept them, or even utilize them. As the adage goes, it is fruitless to fight the current when there is no cascade." She looked at him, knowing she rambled and did not care, and muttered, "Unless of course your name happens to be Sherlock Holmes. Then nothing is that simple."

He ignored the jibe and instead focused on her other words. He wondered if she had finally learned to follow the thoughts of his complex mind even when she was not present. Nevertheless, she had simplified the matter in a way he could only describe as womanly. 

"Thank you Russell," he said, to her confusion. "You have set light onto a problem that was in much darkness before."

She shrugged, grimaced, and said: "You are welcome, although I do not know how I helped."

He smiled, but irony tainted it. "To bed, Russell, before the sun comes up and you are forced to stay awake."

"I would enjoy a few more hours of sleep," she said, "But I find that I am very sore. I do not think I could make it up the stairs." He sighed, wearied by all that his habits forced him to do. 

***

Mrs. Hudson was startled as she walked into the room. More precisely, the body she stumbled upon was startled, and she was flustered.

"Why, what do ye think ye're doing Mr. Holmes?"

"Sleeping on the floor, Mrs. Hudson. Even you should be able to deduce this." 'The man is insufferable,' she thought. 'There is no fighting it.' She shook her head as he sat up and cracked his back.

"I understand that sir, but why?" He mimicked her sigh and replied dully:

"Habit, Mrs. Hudson. One I will not break, not just yet." He looked over to the crumpled figure on the couch. Letting go of her small hand, he stood and said with his usual sardonic tone:

"Now Mrs. Hudson, where is that tea?"

~fin~


End file.
